Castle
by RaKais
Summary: Where the punishment began. (M Rating)


"Hey buddy."

Buddy. Implied friendship. A sense of familiarity designed to induce an air of comfort. When one stranger says it to another, it causes a split second of confusion. Do they actually know them? Where from? By the time they come to a conclusion, they realise they should have thought of something else. Why would they be called 'buddy' in a dark alleyway? Especially from somebody obscured in the shadows. Large and hooded. A slight glint in the moonlight. Threatening. Hostile. There's been a grave mistake. Maybe you shouldn't have taken this shortcut. Maybe the bustling street was the better option after all. Maybe it was worth risking the icy pavements and snow-sluiced roads. A lot of maybes. Not a lot of positives. Other than you're in danger. Any other man or woman in this situation would understand this and turn right the hell around and attempt to leave.

In all honesty. Any other person would avoid dark alleyways at night. No one wants to get mugged... or worse.

Except me.

I took a step forward and a shape detached itself from some dumpsters to stand in front of me. I gave him a seconds glance. Tall. Shorter than me but over six feet tall. Hooded. Dirty jackets and trousers. But that was a deception. He wore a watch far too expensive for a bum to have and the grip of a well maintained Colt M1911A1. protruded from his belt line. He was watching over something. A lookout. Behind him, the alleyway opened up into a courtyard ringed with rusty garage doors. It was close to midnight, so all the apartments above sported darkened windows with drawn curtains and pulled blinds. No witnesses. And the closeness of the buildings hid the courtyard well from prying eyes.

"You sure you're in the right place, buddy?" The stranger said again. His hands were in his trouser pockets, shoulders rolled back slightly. Confident, no doubt. The seconds it would take to extract his hands and reach for his weapon were going to cost him dearly if it came to it. It wouldn't though. Not for him. He wouldn't have seconds.

My leather coat billowed slightly in the wind and I saw the stranger's shoulders hunch slightly. He was more wary. One hand lifted slightly higher out of his pocket. I wasn't surprised. My coat had parted enough for him to see my physique. I was larger than he was, that was for certain, and taller too. I was dressed in dark clothing. Combat pants and thick boots. The sort you'd see in the military. Suddenly I was more than just a potential victim.

"You deaf?" The stranger said and stepped towards me. "This ain't the place you want to be."

I said nothing. Just let him come closer. I needed to take him down quietly and with no shots fired or this place with be crawling with his friends and they'd be packing more than just a pistol. From his attitude, I guess he was used to people being intimidated and my lack of reaction had irritated him. The doubt was going to creep in and he'd try and affirm his dominance once more. Maybe it was pride, a need to keep his reputation. It was more than just his reputation on the line though. Whoever owned him wouldn't be pleased that his sentry couldn't do his job properly.

After tonight. His boss wouldn't be pleased about much.

"Why?" I said. "Where do I want to be?"

"Anywhere but here, pal. Unless you want to get hurt. Bad."

"You think you'll hurt me?"

The bum stopped just out of arms reach. A stand off. He sized me up. I could see his eyes calculating the odds of deterring me. They weren't looking good.

"Let's cut to the chase," I said quietly, my words almost getting lost in the New York ambiance. "I'm going to see your boss. Then I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill everyone who tries to stop me. Are you going to be the first person tonight?"

"Pretty tough words," the bum said, and one hand drifted to the Colt at his belt. "What you gonna do, kill all of us with your bare hands?"

I said nothing. Just stared down at him. Gave him the thousand yard stare. Three tours of Vietnam usually is enough to master one. Three tours was enough to do a lot of things. Being intimidated was not one of those things. Unfortunately, the bum thought otherwise. He smirked. Probably thought I was high or drunk or insane. Regardless, he pulled the pistol out and aimed it at my head. The dull grey glowed under the moonlight. A deadly piece. Served as the standard-issue side arm in the American forces since 1911. Seven rounds. Fires point 45s, which, at this range, is more than enough to blow a hole through me the size of my fist.

But only if it hits.

"Because you're a little retarded, I'll go easy on you," the bum sneered and edged closer, keeping the gun pointed firmly between my eyes. Casualties during a gun fight are often surprisingly low. Especially with pistols. Without rigorous training, the chances of hitting someone past the length of the average living room was low. The punk's knuckles were white and tense from his grip. He was nervous. His smirk was trying to hide what his eyes were telling. I remained silent. I needed to wait for the right moment. There's always a right moment.

"Pay me a small... fee, for my troubles, and you can go," the bum continued, his friendly act returning. Almost as if he didn't have a gun pointed at me. A dog started barking from above. It echoed noisily through the cheap apartment windows. He waved the Colt. "Go on, empty your pockets."

There was my moment.

I flicked my coat off one hip and slid my hand into my pocket. I extracted my worn leather wallet and held it out in the cold night air.

The bum's grin widened. Now he was going to take my money and shoot me anyway. A nice profit. It brought me back to my original conundrum. I needed to get in quietly. A gun going off was going to undo my plan. The world has a romantic view of America where every citizen owns a firearm and gunshots are always heard in the city, but the cops always come running none the less. Same as anywhere civilised. Of course, if I got shot in the head, being heard wouldn't be much of a concern for me. But I wasn't the one who was going to get hit if a gun was fired and so, it was a problem. The bum's aim lowered ever so slightly and he took a few more steps towards me. He was now within arm's reach and like any coward who held a gun, he thought he was invincible.

A few more steps. My hand remained dead still holding the wallet. His hand rose tentatively, the gun wavered a fraction of an inch more. His mind was focused on the prize. The moment of doubt had passed. I was another victim. His fingers came within an inch of the wallet. His index finger eased off the trigger. I exhaled slowly and dropped the wallet.

Time slowed. Adrenaline started pumping. Instinct took over.

His eyes traced the wallet's descent for about a fifth of it's journey. His gun dropped away and to the side. If he fired now, it would miss my left leg by several inches. His whole body leaned forward. By the time he realised his mistake and his chin started to rise again, a second and a half had passed. It took me half a second to punch him in the throat hard enough to crush his windpipe.

The bum fell to the side of the alleyway, scrabbling at the brickwork, lips working tirelessly but there was no air there and soon, there was no life. I bent down and yanked open his jacket. Rifled in his pockets till I came away with a set of keys. I left his wallet where it was. I had no need of it. I retrieved the Colt and disassembled it, throwing the parts into separate trash cans nearby.

Time was now of the essence. Someone came to check in with the bum every two hours. I knew because I had been doing reconnaissance on this location for the past week. I double checked the small metal tag attached to the keys. I needed garage number four, which was the second from the left and the only one that had seen recent use in the last couple of years. The others were rusted shut. Intentional no doubt. All of the garages were owned by the same person. The whole block was probably under the thumb of the same person. After tonight, I'd know who that person was.

I quickly made my way to garage four, bent down, jammed the key inside and lifted it open on it's squealing metal hinges. To my surprise, I was not greeted by an empty room, or one filled with junk. The only thing in the garage, was a door on the far wall. I could see behind it's tinted window that there were stairs leading to the upper floors. I nodded to myself. I was heading in the right direction. But I needed to cover my tracks first.

Heading back into the snow, I dragged the bum's body from the alleyway and sat him up in the corner furthest from the back door. I went back outside and using my foot, displaced the drag marks and most of the foot prints. If any brave soul passed through the courtyard, nothing would seem inherently amiss. Unless it was an actual bum shifting through the trash. Then again, I thought, looking at the body in the corner, you find all kinds of things thrown away.

I shut the garage door, plunging myself into darkness. Then I shrugged out of my long coat and folded it neatly, placing it by the door. I flexed my arms and rolled my shoulders. When I last checked there were eight people who regularly inhabited these apartments. Most of the rooms were probably empty, others were used for storage. I'd seen large crates moved back and forth over the last week. The sort of crates I'd seen a thousand times back in the service. This was a storage house, specifically guns and most likely money. I inhaled through my nose. Didn't seem like they were using any drug labs. Back to the task. Eight people, including the boss, excluding the bum. All armed, but I'd bet none of them kept their weapons at the ready. Probably left in holsters or slung onto beds and tables. This was a relaxed environment. They weren't bothered by anyone, especially not the police. They wouldn't be expecting someone like me.

I stepped in front of the back door and placed a large hand on the handle. There was a moment's hesitation. Not out of fear, because I was more than a match for any mafia crook, but out of a small measure of doubt. I hadn't come armed except for two Ka-Bar combat knifes. One was sheathed at the top of my right boot, the other was along the small of my back, parallel with my belt. Should I have kept that Colt? Or brought something heavier? Maybe a Shotgun. An Ithaca would have been satisfying. But thinking of guns made me think of gunshots and the memory of six months ago blew through my mind like an armour piercing round. With a shaking hand, I touched my chest and ran my fingers over the two star shaped scars there.

I wouldn't be needing any guns. I opened the door, and started up the stairs.


End file.
